


Paralyzed By My Envy of the Night

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [38]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Omega Dean, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scared Dean, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4993195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t remember very clearly what happens next.<br/>He wishes he could.</p>
<p>In which we see how Dean is forcibly sterilized, and the aftermath.</p>
<p>Timestamp, Dean POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paralyzed By My Envy of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from City Lights, by Motionless In White.

Dad looks at him like he doesn’t know who he is anymore.

That bothers Dean most of all, but it’s tempered by the fact that Sammy’s face hasn’t changed, not one bit.

Sam’s always been a tactile child, but only with him. Dean’s not a doctor, but he’s pretty sure that it’s because Sammy didn’t grow up with a mom, doesn’t know what it’s like to be loved so hard you could disintegrate from the pain, can’t feel anything but that surrounding you.

He’s only fourteen, but he thinks he’s tried his best for Sammy, done as well as he could with what little he’s been afforded.

Dean would be lying if he said that being Sammy’s personal hero wasn’t everything that made him up. That he didn’t try more, do above, just so that Sammy would look up at him, bright as the sun.

S’not the first time he’s wondered what that makes him.

That make him less than?

Dean used to smell like summer.

He’d known it when he’d woken up a few weeks back, hot flush of burn all over his body, collecting in his throat and spreading out to lick at his legs, tighten his joints into locked angles.

_Smell like oranges, Dean_

and Sammy’d looked so broken-wide and proud. Ran his little fingers across Dean’s cheeks, still smooth, he doesn’t have hair there, yet. Pushed his head just under Dean’s chin, where he likes to tuck it, and what does it mean, Dean?

Dean’s got no problem with presenting as ‘mega. Most of the world don’t either. Course, there’s always gonna be a few knot-heads with too many hormones for their own good, but it’s just a second gender.

Not to say it isn’t rigid, ‘megas don’t top Alphas. It goes against every biological code there is, and Dean understands that now, can’t even wrap his mind around that being a possibility. Thinks he might break his back in submission if he ever tried to mount an _Alpha._

Same sex relationships are more common, great ways to blow off steam until a true mate is found. Dean knows a few same sex couples that opt for that, rather than a traditional mating, but they’re both ‘megas, and they seem pretty content, all things considered.

Alpha on Alpha matings are rarer, and Dad says it’s cause two knot-heads can never stand to fuck and be fucked with equal intensity. Dean thinks sex between two wolves like that is an exercise in violence. He thinks all they must do is shed blood and break bone.

Dean thinks there’s probably more omega discrimination in the hunting community than there is in the rest of the world. The world’s pretty progressive about that, and he thinks knot-brain’s are probably more volatile anyway. They’re the ones the world ought to worry about, in his opinion.

But he thinks he gets why his Dad looked at him like that. Why his Dad looks so concerned.

Dean shifts on his bed, glances over to where Sammy is pressed against his side, wrapped up so tight even Dean has trouble figuring out where he begins, and where Sammy ends. Sam’s arm is firm against his chest, nut-brown, cause the kid can’t seem to stay out of the sun to save his life.

He’s warm, runs so warm it’s almost criminal, and Dean tries not to think about why that probably is.

Kid’s probably Alpha, through and through, and Dean won’t be the least bit surprised when he presents. He’s too headstrong to be anything else, won’t listen until he can figure out why it’ll benefit him, why it’s right in his own head.

Sammy scents him in his sleep and Dean pauses, allows him to.

He watches as Sam’s face scrunches up, and his jagged elbow digs further into Dean’s side. His brother’s  latent wolf is confused. Sam can’t connect with his wolf yet, still too young for the shift, but he knows that something is off. He can’t smell Dean, he’s heard Sam complain about it often enough.

Sam smells like unsexed youth still, too young to present as anything but fresh and male, but he can smell the genders, just like any other wolf, and he’s aware that Dean’s lacking.

Dean curls into himself a little, tucks long legs up, just underneath the cage of Sam’s spindly arms.

He remembers the way Sam’s eyes had looked when Dean had woken, flush of scent, and the burgeoning awareness of his own hole, slightly slick from presentation, rather than arousal.

And Sammy, his eyes so focused, fists squeezed shut across his chest.

“You’re ‘mega, Dean!”

Said so proudly Dean had laughed himself right out of bed and over to his little brother’s side. Tipped his neck for Sam’s curious exploration, and he thought things would be alright. He didn’t have a chance to be disappointed at not turning out Alpha, like his dad, because Sammy was so _pleased._

So dirty, downright ecstatic, that Dean felt everything settle, unperturbed in his chest. He was a good hunter and a strong fighter before he even knew what it meant to produce slick, or pop a knot. That didn’t have anything to do with how he liked to take it in bed.

He could feel the gentle press of his wolf at his brain, realized he’d always been there, simmering underneath his surface of consciousness. He was warm, teeth bared in a gentle greeting. Dean wondered what it would feel like to shift.

He wonders whether or not his Dad considered that, when he made the choice he did.

He’s only been presented a week when his Dad tells Sammy not to open the door, not to touch anything, leave the guns exactly where they are, and salt the doors when they leave.

Sam’s not a docile child.

He rails, snags Dean’s hand and Dean curls his own fingers around the small appendage, too strong for his age.

“I wanna come too. You gotta let me come too.” Sam’s voice isn’t as high as it used to be, but it’s still nowhere near intimidating, and Dean smiles down at him fondly. “We’re just gonna go talk to one of Dad’s friends, Sammy. You got school tomorrow.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “You do too, asshole.” Dean snorts a little and ruffles Sam’s hair just because it pisses him off.

Sam curls his hand tighter around Dean’s wrist and tugs, so sharp Dean can feel his shoulder pop. “Dad.” Sam says firmly, looks over Dean’s head to meet John’s gaze.

John only has eyes for Sam, and Dean’ll find that strange in years to come, but right now he can’t see why it’s such a big deal.

John shakes his head at his youngest son. “We’re coming back, Sam. Your brother’s coming back.” Dean raises his eyebrow at the defiant form Sammy makes below him.

“That what this is about?” He squats low enough to meet Sam’s level, and his brother has grown three inches in a summer. Dean scrubs his hand across his nose and meets Sam’s stained eyes.

“M’coming home.” Dean pauses, can see in the tilt of Sam’s head that it’s not the right thing to say.

“I always come home.”

Sam doesn’t so much as let his hand go as John simply angles his body in between them, and ushers Dean out first. John looks at his youngest warmly, face twisted, but then it smooths itself back out. “Don’t touch anything, Sammy, alright?”

John reaches to pull the kid in for a side hug, but Sam stumbles back, turns back into the living room.

Door’s heavy when it clicks shut.

Dean remembers the drive, it takes about half an hour to get to the house, and it’s warm outside, even though the sun’s long since gone down.

His Dad is pretty quiet, and Dean’s legs stick gently to the inside of his jeans, to the leather of the Impala. Dean runs his fingers against the dashboard idly, and chances a glance at John.

His father grips the steering wheel so tightly that it looks like it hurts, but Dean doesn’t comment on it.

“Your mom would be proud of you, Dean.” John says, suddenly, and Dean clips the edge of his knuckle against the dashboard.

“Huh? Alright,” Dean says slowly, doesn’t know where that came from.

John turns to look at him, and he’s smiling, but it’s all wrong, it looks more like the face he gave Sammy when they left, and Dean can’t explain why it makes his insides twist, poisonous snakes in his veins.

“I’ll always watch out for the two of you.” His Dad says this last firmly, and all Dean knows is that the words aren’t meant for him.

He doesn’t remember very clearly what happens next.

He wishes he could.

It’s better that he doesn’t.

He remembers meeting Brandon, nice enough man, stank like magic and herbs, and Dean can’t fathom why his father is friendly with a _witch._

Brandon isn’t very tall, maybe about 5’9, and his eyes are milky-grey, like maybe he can’t see. He doesn’t seem to have much trouble navigating his cabin, even though it’s only one story, and not exactly spacious.

Dried meats dangle over Dean’s head, and he can see church-glass colored vials strewn across bookcases in the far corner.

Dean wants to ask what this is, what’s going on, but he never gets the chance.

It hurts.

Hurts is probably an understatement, but it feels like there are knives burrowed _inside_

_and he can’t get them out_

and he’s screaming, can’t breathe so bad, cause every time he tries for air another scream tumbles out, leaks like water from a drain, and has his Dad brought him here to die?

He can feel his Dad’s hand in his, tighter than Dean’s even squeezing, and the table is cold and sterile, like a hospital gurney, cut of metal against freckled flesh.

“You said it wouldn’t hurt him!”

That’s his Dad, but Dean can’t make out his face through the tears, can’t really hear because there’s a wire of fire tripping up his spine and he’s immobilized. He can feel it down near his groin, and his legs lock up.

He’s huffing in air, his neck taut and turned to the side. His body jerks once, four times, and then he pisses all over himself, and that makes him cry harder, because how can that be _worse?_

“I said it wouldn’t hurt the whole time, Winchester.” He hears, and Jesus fuck, could there be more, what else could they possibly want to take from his body, break until he’s shattered, because they’ll never be able to put him back together again, not from this.

“Goes against nature. Think it’d be easy?”

And that’s the last thing Dean hears.

He aches when he wakes up, and he’s suddenly violently aware that they’re in the Impala, and it’s darker than when they last set out. Stars pepper the sky and Dean’s head is lying in his father’s lap, can feel the stretch of muscle when his father switches pedals.

He’s empty.

He can’t feel him, not that he knew him long enough to feel, but he recalls the warmth of his wolf, slow snap of claws and teeth, gentle brush of fur.

He’s not anywhere, and it’s even worse than before, because he doesn’t have the undercurrent of knowing. There’s blank emptiness, and he knows what’s happened before he even scents himself.

They took his wolf from him.

They burned him out, wheat from chaff, and he can’t scent anything of who he is. Smells blank, like paper, dead grass, the chilled wind of a blizzard.

He’s crying so hard he doesn’t realize it until his father’s hand comes down onto his head, gentle and firm at once, and Dean hurts, down there.

His legs spasm a little with the realization, and he releases a whimper of pain.

“Jesus Christ. Dean.”

Dean knows those words don’t belong to him, either. 

 


End file.
